


Out Of Sight, Out Of Our Minds

by morkfrompork



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Episode Fix-it, Episode: s05e03 Out of Sight Out of Mind, Hurt/Comfort, I will up the rating if necessary, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, but am I fixing it if I'm making it worse?, my title is super creative I know, still writing so I don't know how intense the relationship will get
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27997512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morkfrompork/pseuds/morkfrompork
Summary: After a freak accident lighting a stove, Hawkeye suffered severe flash burns that have left him blinded. Most people recover within a week or so, but as the days drag on, BJ becomes more convinced that Hawkeye isn’t most people.
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Frank & Flash Burns

BJ had never liked baseball all that much. He was a little too scrawny as a kid to play with the others and listening to games on the radio bored him senseless. That never stopped Peg from dragging him to Seals Stadium on the weekends he couldn’t come up with any work-related excuse. She’d been a fan ever since the AAGPBL had established a team in her hometown of Kenosha and though her loyalties changed upon her move to San Francisco with BJ, her craze for the game had never wavered. BJ never exactly wanted to spend his afternoons in a ballpark that was too hot and sunny, watching a game that always felt just a little too long, but watching Peg get so thrilled was worth the three dollars he spent on the tickets. 

Of course, it wasn’t late in the afternoon, nor was it warm, and he wasn’t seated in the plastic chairs of the ball park. It was nearly three in the morning, with a chill breezing through his tent in Korea and Peg wasn’t there making the sounds of baseball bearable. He’d heard Hawkeye mumble at Frank to turn off the radio at least a dozen times and no matter how firmly he pressed his thin pillow against his ears, information about the bout between the Dodgers and the Giants kept leaking in. It didn’t even seem like Frank actually cared who won. Just what the score was. He never cheered, not even the little hissed ‘yes’ when either team scored like Peg did. It sounded more like he was just listening to know. Especially when BJ heard the tell-tale scratch of a pencil against paper. Probably some kind of slimy scheme to get ahead in life, as Frank was known to do. But this late at night, BJ couldn’t bring himself to care. The only thing he heard that made him smile was the announcement of the 4-3 concluding score and the promise of a rebroadcast at noon. 

“Shut it off, Frank,” Hawkeye mumbled, pulling his thin blankets further over himself. “It’s 4-3 in the morning.”

“Stop dreaming and go back to sleep,” Frank shot back, switching off the little radio as he moved around in bed, assumedly trying to find a position on the cot that would retain body heat, but also fit between the limits.

“That makes good nonsense.”

BJ loved Hawkeye, really, he did, but the man had a serious problem with always needing the last word. 

Now that the static-filled broadcast had been shut off, the tent seemed almost quiet. Korea was never dead silent, BJ had learned, but he took what he could where he could get it. As long as they weren’t being actively fired upon and there were no choppers going overhead, it was quiet in his books. He was finally starting to doze off when the door to the Swamp opened and at least two pairs of feet scuttled in. BJ hoped to God they were just very large rats. Rats didn’t make much noise besides the occasional squeak of fright. 

“Hawkeye?”

Rats didn’t ask for doctors by name.

Rats.

“Wake up, Hawkeye, the stove in our tent went out.”

“Again?”

This wasn’t the first time the nurses had had issues with their stove this winter. It only happened once or twice when it first started getting cold, but when the winds got more violent, the stove seemed to be going out once a night. If BJ didn’t know any better, he’d think the nurses were just scheming to get Hawkeye alone in a room full of nurses and not have his wits about him. 

“It’s freezing in there.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“There are four of us.”

BJ nearly chuckled at the resignation in Hawkeye’s voice as he pulled off his blanket to stand. 

“I knew I should have gotten a bigger bed.”

“Could you people hold it down?” Frank piped up, his voice grating at BJ’s nerves. “I mean, show some consideration.”

“I don’t remember leaving a wake-up scream,” BJ grumbled. Consideration, his ass.

“Thanks, Hawkeye, you’re the only one who can fix it.” BJ was pretty sure that wasn’t true and given Hawkeye’s tired mutters of disdain, he felt safe in assuming the feeling was mutual.

“BJ?”

“Hmm?”

“If I’m not back in five minutes, don’t come get me.” If he wasn’t so tired, BJ might have chuckled. 

Out of the corner of his partially-opened eye, he watched the light above Hawkeye’s cot shut off and his roommate shuffle out of the tent behind two nurses who were bundled up as tightly as they could be to avoid what had to be a bitter chill outside. 

BJ stretched out a little as he turned onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Sleep was evading him all-too-rudely and likely would continue to until Hawkeye was back and snoring quietly. Ever since Peg and he had started sharing a bed all those years ago, BJ had begun to find it impossible to sleep without someone nearby. Frank was all the way across the tent and there was a stove between them; impossible to hear. He’d been worried coming over- there had been plenty of stories of what MASH units were like back home, but no details of the sleeping arrangements. He’d breathed an enormous sigh of relief when Hawkeye told him they’d be bunking together and an even larger one that evening when he realised his bunkmate snored loudly enough to drown out the distant sounds of gunfire. If he ever needed it, he just pretended the lanky man ten feet away was his beautiful wife, ten inches away. And if the homesickness was especially bad, he pretended Frank’s little fidgets during the night were Erin rustling in her crib. Sometimes it worked well enough to soothe him back to sleep. Other times, it left him in worse shape than he’d began. Korea had proven itself time and time again to be a lonely place, but knowing that he had people around him made it somewhat more bearable. 

Between the stove warming the air around his feet and the thoughts of his family swirling around his head, the sleep that had been struggling to overtake him was finally succeeding in pulling BJ’s eyes closed. Until an explosion close enough to shake him out of any sleep he could have gotten rang through the camp. That would have been plenty to set him upright and his heart racing, but it was the collective screaming that got BJ out of bed (thank God he’d had the sense to wear shoes to bed). He paused in his scrambling just long enough to throw on his bathrobe before bolting to the nurse’s quarters. Hawkeye was stumbling out of the tent as he arrived, palms pressed to his eyes and screaming, all the while surrounded by nurses who were screaming just as shrilly. As worrisome as it was, at least Hawkeye was still able to walk. Plenty of soldiers had come through their OR who never learned of such luxury. 

BJ reached him the same moment Colonel Potter did, but Potter, ever the leader, backed away from the forming posse to organise them. Flash burns were serious business and it was necessary to get Hawkeye to the OR as quickly as possible. BJ knew he heard Potter say something about an ophthalmologist, but it was hard to hear over Hawkeye’s screams of pain, the nurses’ screams of panic and the sound of his own heart pumping in his ears. 

The next few hours were a blur to say the least. The sleep deprivation was already messing with his head, but hearing Hawkeye in so much pain was what was really knocking BJ out of his rhythm. He’d never seen anyone in that much pain without there being a substantial amount of blood involved. As much as he hated it, BJ had grown comfortable with blood. It was easy to fix: if it was where it wasn’t supposed to be, he had to stop it from getting there. Sometimes that involved stitching, or removing parts that were too broken to be fixed, or just removing things that weren’t supposed to be there, but there was almost always blood. In this case, there was absolutely none. The closest thing to red was Hawkeye’s bathrobe and the toasted skin around his eyes. The worst part about the whole situation was that there was nothing he could do to help. He was no ophthalmologist- didn’t know anything about the inner workings of the eyes beyond what he learned in first year biology. 

BJ wasn’t sure how Radar accomplished it, but the ophthalmologist in question, Major Overman, arrived long before the sun was up and true to the reputation BJ had gathered of him, was swift in his examination and bandaging. It was awful, but the truth of the matter was that it was all there was to be done. Padding the eyes and wrapping a long length of bandage around the patient’s head so the padding wouldn’t move. It would let the eyes rest and after a week or so, if vision came back, everything would be okay. If not…

“How’s that feel?”

“Blind.”

BJ would have probably chuckled if the situation was different. The mood of the room seemed to express the same feelings. The Major didn’t even crack a smile.

“Okay, Hawkeye, you take it easy for a couple of days. I’ll be back Friday.” 

Nearly a week away. As nervous as he was, BJ could only imagine the terror Hawkeye was feeling. But he never showed it. Never showed it unless you knew him, that is. He always told jokes to keep the atmosphere lighter, but he laughed at them. There was no laughter here. Not even a smile. 

“Listen, one important question. Will I get to keep my nickname?”

“Let’s hope so.” The Major spoke for everyone there. They called him ‘Pierce’ often enough, That was different. Too impersonal. His name, but never his _name_.

“Just wondering if I should rent a seeing-eye dog or buy one.” The joking was getting weaker. Hawkeye was slowly accepting what had happened and it looked like everyone who had gathered around his cot could feel it too. 

“See you Friday.”

Major Overman packed his gear and was escorted out of the post-op by Potter, asking something about a General O'Reilly. If BJ hadn’t been so on-edge, he would have maybe even laughed at the idea of Radar being a General, let alone a General who was so mad that he scared a clerk into a rushed shipment of an ophthalmologist. But instead, he was leaning on the end posts of Hawkeye’s cot, watching a nurse yell her sympathies at him. There was something about the injured and sick that made people forget what their actual ailments were and caused them to be treated as invalids. Based on Hawkeye’s wince, it was clear his partner-in-crime was already feeling the sting of the different treatment. 

“You don’t have to shout, the sides still work.”

“We’re sorry,” she corrected herself, lowering her voice to a library-esque whisper.

“That’s alright. Next time, get a union man.”

“Hawk, if there’s anything you need…” It was generally said as a passing sympathy that didn’t really mean anything, but BJ wasn’t sure what else to say. He was a caretaker deep down and lord knew Hawkeye was going to need some help during the next few days.

“Well, if you’re going by the PX, you could get me a colouring book and some crayons.” Hawkeye’s head was angled towards him, but he wasn’t facing him by a long shot. Whether because it didn’t matter or because he didn’t care, BJ wasn’t sure. Nor was he sure he wanted to know the answer.

“I think you’re sick enough to qualify for the big box. I gotta go.” He was smiling, but BJ was sure Hawkeye could hear the worry in his voice. He tried to keep calm and carry on, no matter what the war threw, but this wasn’t something he could just walk away from. He wanted to be there.

“BJ?”

“Yeah?”

“Visit me a couple hundred times, will ya?” The request was small and quiet, almost desperate. 

“At least.”


	2. The Last Straw

The system put in place to help Hawkeye with his daily comings and going was not without its flaws, but his jovial attitude definitely made it easier. Having him lie in Post-op had proved too troublesome for Frank, who didn’t appreciate being shown up by a blind man, so most of his time was spent in the Swamp, talking with whoever was assigned to help him from place to place. Klinger had even given him a duck call to summon assistance with. Never mind the assistance sometimes led him into doorways or stoves. Hawkeye never held it against them. If he was ever angry or frustrated, he never showed it. 

Even with Frank’s demands that he do his recovering from the Swamp, Hawkeye didn’t stop his twice-daily visits to Post-op. Checking up on patients was what got him through the day. If BJ had to make a guess, he’d say that hearing about the recoveries of others gave Hawkeye some kind of hope towards his own. Especially Lieutenant Straw, a high school english teacher who’d had the misfortune of having a grenade land ten feet in front of him. He’d caught the bulk of the shrapnel with his face. The scarring wasn’t too bad, but his blindness was permanent, no matter what the doctors did. Every day, Hawkeye would ask “How’s the Straw kid doing?” A few days into the week, BJ finally had good news.

“We’re about to send him down to the 121st.” He was cleared for travel and about to go home to beautiful San Francisco. Not that he was going to be able to see any of it.

“I want to see him.” The irony was not lost on Hawkeye, but he never quite got used to not using the word.

“Right away.”

He was only a few steps away, but it was always safer to have someone lead him around with all the small walkways and crates between the beds. 

“Mr. Straw?”

“Yes?”

“I have here Hawkeye Pierce, new boy in your English class.” 

“Ah yes, Pierce. Third row, second seat, big mouth.” BJ had never heard such an apt description. 

“The very same.”

Joking. It had all been joking. Hawkeye had said once that he told jokes because it was the only way to open his mouth without screaming. Almost everything he’d said since the accident was a joke. If BJ knew anything about Hawkeye and how he operated, his roommate was terrified. Burying it was only going to make things worse in the long run. If things continued this way, he gave it two weeks before Hawkeye began screaming in the night. It had to be addressed. BJ’s thoughts were interrupted by Klinger walking in, surprisingly in fatigues.

“Captain, which one is Straw, T.S., Lieutenant?” 

“Right there,” BJ pointed to the last bed where the two blind men were discussing how Straw’s wife was going to take the news.

“Movin out, sir,” Klinger declared, holding onto Straw’s arm gently. 

“Movin out,” Straw repeated, standing and grinning wider than he had since he had stepped into Post-op. “I’d like you to write to me, Hawkeye.”

“Only if you promise not to send the letters back corrected.”

“It’s a deal. I really want to know how things turn out for you.” Straw shook Hawkeye’s hand after brief difficulties locating it. He then turned to BJ, who, with eyes, made the ordeal much simpler.

“Give my regards to Mill Valley.” BJ was man enough to admit he was jealous that someone got to go back to San Francisco. He wished every day it could be him.

“And remember me to Union Square,” Hawkeye piped up. 

The two of them watched Straw walk out with Klinger before Hawkeye stood. It was the one thing he still felt comfortable doing.

“Beej, let’s get in the jeep and go for a ride. You drive.”

“Hawkeye…”

“Alright, I’ll drive.” He was joking again. A foot had to be put down. As a new parent, BJ hadn’t had a lot of experience with putting his foot down, but Hawkeye was giving him plenty of practice.

“Look, will you settle down for five minutes?” Hawkeye stopped moving around so much. Either because of the impact of BJ’s words or the two firm hands on his shoulders. “Sit down.”

The two of them sat down into a thick and uncomfortable silence.

“I know what you’re trying to do and I know how you feel-”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

“You don’t want to think about what might happen, so you keep running.” He was grinning. Hawkeye was grinning ear to ear, like he’d just been handed a winning raffle ticket. 

“No, that’s not it. That’s not it… look, when Doctor Overman comes in here and unwraps my package, I hope to God I’ll have my sight back, but…” He paused for a moment, hunting for the right words. “Something fascinating’s been happening to me.”

“What’s that, Hawk?”

“One part of the world has closed down for me, but another part has opened up. Sure, I keep picturing myself sitting on a corner with a tin cup selling thermometers, but I’m going through something here I didn’t expect. This morning, I spent two incredible hours listening to that rainstorm and I didn’t just hear it. I was part of it. I’ll bet you have no idea that rain hitting the ground makes the same sound as steaks when they’re barbecuing. Or that thunder seems to echo forever. And you wouldn’t believe how funny it is to hear somebody slip and fall in the mud. It had to be Burns. Beej, this is full of trapdoors, but I think there may almost be some kind of advantage in this. I’ve never spent a more conscious day in my life.” 

Maybe there was a point to the madness. He was smiling and laughing, but not in the way Hawkeye usually did. These weren’t cries for help disguised as humour. For likely the first time since they’d met, BJ could have sworn that Hawkeye was feeling genuinely content. Until Frank walked it, that was.

“Alright, Pierce. This area’s been deemed off-limits to personnel in your condition and I’m giving you one minute to clear out.” 

“Frank…” Did he have no sense of tact? Couldn’t he tell they were having a serious moment? It was moments like this when BJ would really like to wipe that smug little lipless smirk off his face. 

“Fifty-five seconds and counting.” 

Dick.

“Frank, do us a favour and defect,” Hawkeye snapped.

“Alright, mister, no more chances. Orderly!” Of course he was calling for backup. It was only a blind man with a cane who was getting testy with him. 

“Alright, Frank, here we go! This is your one chance for a fair fight!”

“Oh, you asked for it, Pierce!”

“I can take you with both eyes tied behind my back.” The two of them might have had the athletic abilities of a pair of water buffalo, but Hawkeye had rage and a wooden cane on his side as well as very little regard for his personal surroundings. BJ decided it might be best to step in between them before someone got badly hurt. He grabbed Hawkeye and tried to hold down his arms as best he could while shoving himself between the scuffle. It didn’t stop Hawkeye’s temper.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s me!” BJ insisted, beginning to shove him towards the exit.

“Where’s Frank?” Speak of the devil, his call for an orderly finally came through.

“Able; do me a favour. Get him out of here, would you?” He shoved Hawkeye into the arms of Nurse Able, whose very touch seemed to calm him down. But only a little.

“Say something, Frank, so I’ll know where to spit! Who’s this?” Typical Hawkeye to lose interest in a fight as soon as a nurse was involved.

“Able, it’s Able.”

BJ watched the two shuffle out of Post-op and into the dreary afternoon. At least some of the things around camp never changed.

“He’s lucky you stepped in,” Frank grumbled.

“You’re lucky I didn’t let him kill you.” 

Yup, some things never changed.


End file.
